I find interesting that, in English, it’s said Crowley “sauntered vaguely downwards”, while, in the French translation, he “stumbled”.
I mean, in both, he “ha[s]n’t meant to Fall. He’[s] just hung around with the wrong people”. But “saunter” seems to me (as a non-native English-speaker) a little more deliberate (even if he’d probably underestimated the consequences) than “stumble”.
So, basically, it’s worse in French. The poor marshmallow.
Okay actually the funniest thing about Good Omens is that Crowley is described as not having fallen, but rather as having “sauntered vaguely downwards”, and yet he’s the most over dramatic fuck ever, and then you’ve got Aziraphale aka fandom’s interpretation of Pure, who you just know, you just know that if he fell he’d go out LIKE THE GODDAMN METEORITE THAT KILLED THE DINOSAURS. Maybe not in terms of effect on others but screaming and wailing on his part? Woooooah yeah
“So don’t cry, crybaby, all dressed in green, how many kisses do you need?”
Crowley doesn’t recieve NEARLY as much love from me as he deserves, but Aziraphale tends to be underappreciated and underanalyzed so I can’t really help it T_T Anyhow, I spent the afternoon drawing everyone’s favorite hissy fit, and accompanying headcanons!
So, I’m fairly certain that there’s a class of angel that’s meant to weep for humanity’s sins to God, but it’s not a specific sphere, so I figured that it’d be some kind of subcategory of Third Sphere, since they’re meant for human affairs? I’m just experimenting with the idea of Crowley having been one of those, with the downside being that the tears of that subtype tend to contain holiness, and since he “sauntered vaguely downward” (COUGH deserted), he never got that holiness fully burned out during the Fall. As a result, his tears still can contain a small amount of holiness, and… yeah that’ll burn him.
As a Principality, I included a sort of basic model for comparison (all principalities, in my mind, would be some variation on it). Crowley would be an Earth Based Empathetic Unit, specifically created to learn and adapt, and since all angels have a specific duty, he was kind of the only one. He is a weird angel, and a weirder demon as a result. His crown variation was obviously plants, which were mutated into snakes upon his Fall, because God is, again, Like That.
The snakes are a little bit of a mockery, honestly. They coil around his head and drip the holy tears onto his face constantly, particularly his eyes, and he has pretty bad eyesight in his True Form, not helped by the bandages that he uses to keep those damn snake holy tears out of his eyes.
TFA Blurr kicks his legs out in recharge, running even in his dreams. It used to be kind of cute, his feet gently swinging back and forth, a little smile lighting his faceplates. But after being stuck as a cube for who knows how long, his kicks have gotten more violent -he’s not just running in his dreams anymore, he’s running from his nightmares. And that sweet smile has been replaced with a tortured expression and a quiet chanting of “no, no, no, No, NO!”
People have mentioned this before (it’s on this adorable Valentine), but I can’t
get over it. Crowley didn’t fall in love with Aziraphale overnight. It took, in
fact, millennia. It took them talking together even when they weren’t supposed
to, Crowley approaching the angel, a bit cocky considering they were supposedly
enemies, though his confidence was just for show. Centuries of talking to him
because there was no one else like him around. Never being sure where any of it
was really going, but doing it anyway. Striding up to a Principality and saying
‘hey, let’s give the fighting a break and try this new drink the humans have
invented.’ Hanging around him just to bug him at first, then out of boredom,
then because of something else. Centuries of wandering closer to something and
then one decade and a year of seeing each other more than ever before. Before
that, millennia of him refusing to accept the angel’s bullshit that they were
really all that different. Millennia of proving it wrong. It finally working,
proving something else, also, to himself as much as to Aziraphale. Millennia of moving towards each other without noticing until they were surprised by how close they were.
Crowley didn’t just fall for Aziraphale. He sauntered
vaguely downwards into love with him.
Montparnasse: An Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards (Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman are the /best/)
“Montparnasse had dark hair and good cheekbones and he was wearing skinsnake shoes, or at least presumably he was wearing shoes, and he could do really weird things with his tongue. And, whenever he forgot himself, he had a tendency to hiss.”
A/N: I was sick this past week and shit’s been going down here (as it usually is my end) and I’ve been running on very little sleep, which is why this is late. But I’ve really gotta hand it to @mamaimpala for being my beta through the very cringe-worthy first draft of this fic and for putting up with me while I was high out of my mind on meds but still insisted I had to write this. I owe her my soul. Anyways, I hope y’all like this and do let me know what you think :)
“Yeah,” you said, holding Sam and Dean on loudspeaker in the palm of your hand. “I’m just gonna stop at the next town for dinner and-motherfucker!” The car swerved, tires screeching on the asphalt and Sam and Dean’s frantic shouts coming from somewhere by your feet. The car came to a wince-worthy halt and you gripped the steering wheel with heavy breaths and a hummingbird heart.
Swallowing, you whipped your head towards the passenger seat.
“What the fuck is wrong with you!”
You were greeted with a twist of lips and dark brows arched in amusement. Castiel sauntered-vaguely-downward angel and part-time demon leaned back in the previously empty seat.
“Hello, Y/N,” he greeted in his usual gravelly timbre, drawing out the syllables of your name. “Hope you don’t mind if I, uh, drop in unannounced?”
This is @saunters-vaguely-downwards‘ fault. Completely. Blame her. (This begins right after Madara and Hashirama in the Valley of the End, but Madara actually died. What happened post that in canon doesn’t matter)
Madara blinked blearily as light hit his face.
This….this isn’t possible he thought. He knew he died. How was the sun hitting his face?
“Madara! Are you up?” his mother called.
His mother called.
Madara shot up, his eyes wide. His legs tangled in the blankets and he fell to the floor from raised, well, it wasn’t a futon that was for sure. A bed, the words floated up from the depths of his mind. He cursed violently.
“Madara? Are you okay?” His mother knocked on the door.
“Uh, yes! I just…fell.”
His words felt flat even to him.
“Well alright. You better hurry up, you don’t want to be late for school.”
He heard her walk away. What was “school”?
He stood up and looked around the room he found himself in. At a desk there was a pile of folded clothes. Bemused he held them up. It was a uniform of sorts. Straight navy pants, a white shirt with buttons, a red overtop (jacket, it was called a jacket), and some thin piece of fabric that was blue with red strips on it. On the desk was a picture of him and… Hashirama? (Though Hashirama’s hair ended at his shoulders as opposed to down his back) in the uniforms.
Madara stumbled down the stairs and followed his nose to the kitchen. His Mother set a plate in front of him. For a moment he stared at the plate before picking up the toast.
“Aniki, hurry up,” a 16 year old Izuna whined as he bounced in the doorway, “I’m supposed to meet Tobi at the library before school.”
Madara gaped at his brother.
Izuna glanced up from the rectangular thing in his hand.
“Aniki, are you okay?” he asked with a frown.
“Uh, yes. Sorry, I had a … weird dream last night.”
“Whatever,” Izuna snorted.
Izuna left him at the gates, with only a worried look. Madara couldn’t blame him, he had jumped when a horrible metal contraption had rushed past them. Cars were the weirdest part of this genjutsu that was for sure.
Madara looked around, a frown starting to form on his face. He couldn’t quite remember where he was supposed to go…
There was an explosion suddenly.
Madara turned towards the sound, and
That, that could not be real. Standing in the courtyard was a humanoid monster that was purple with a brown unitard with… strings?! that was holding a rod and…
Madara just stared.
Then it opened it’s mouth and destroyed the windows and part of the wall next to it.
Madara swore and bolted for the ally-way nearby. No one was entering it, and that meant it was the fastest way for him to get around the crowd and into the building to find Izuna. He was not about to loose his brother again!
He froze as he entered the ally-way. Facing away from him, just inside, was a 16 year old Tobirama Senju.
“Moon Prism Power Make-up!” Tobirama intoned holding his hand up in the air.
Sparkling nail polish appeared on the hand as Tobirama’s clothes disappeared. Madara gaped as Tobirama brought his hand down, holding both slightly out to the side.
Ribbons burst from something on his chest and encased his torso before exploding into a white unitard with a blue collar. The ribbons covered his arms as Tobirama crossed them in front of his head and then became white gloves, reaching over his elbows.
Then the ribbons encased his legs, and exploded into knee-high blue heeled boots. Madara didn’t know what was happening, but he couldn’t look away even as he felt his face burn with a red blush.
A piece of blue pleated fabric exploded from his waist, and just brushed the top of his thighs and Madara’s eyes widened as he swallowed hard.
Tobirama arched his back and a light exploded from his forehead, creating a golden tiara. Madara could just see his forehead as he bent, thankful that Tobirama’s eyes were closed. A ruby sat in the center of the tiara.
Tobirama unbent and ended in a pose with one hand on his hip and another doing something with his hand at his forehead.
“Pretty sailor soldier of love and justice,” Tobirama called out, doing some sort of dance, “Sailor Moon!”
Hi! Do you know any good... *looks over shoulder* *whispers* ...daddy kink fics? *hides*
Oh, nonny. Precious, wonderful, kinky nonny. You speak my language. Our lovely mod dom!cas got me into daddy kink, and I’ve been sauntering vaguely downwards to hell ever since.
Unfortunately, there’s not a huge amount of daddy!Dom!Cas to be had. I haven’t included non-sexual age play in this fic rec list, but if you are interested in that, might I recommend literally any of the Daddy!Cas & Little!Dean fics by @tsuki-chibi?
Without further ado, here are four daddy!Dom!Cas/sub!Dean fics to tantalize your taste buds:
One’s a gadget-loving demon that didn’t as much fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards. The other’s an loyal angel with an inordinate fondness for books. Together they avert the Apocalypse.
It was the sort of sensible arrangement that many isolated agents, working in awkward conditions a long way from their superiors, reach with their opposite number when they realize that they have far more in common with their immediate opponents than their remote allies. It meant a tacit non-interference in certain of each other’s activities. It made certain that while neither really won, also neither really lost, and both were able to demonstrate to their masters the great strides they were making against a cunning and well-informed adversary.”
Hi! You mentioned at some point that you think Crowley has a general larger capacity for empathy than Aziraphale? I was wondering why you think this is, not because I disagree but because I really love character studies and I'd enjoy knowing what you think about it. Have a nice day! (sorry if this is a bother or anything)
Thanks for a fantastic question, anon! The evidence I’ve put forward for this characterization of Crowley comes directly from the novel; I think this may even be the second or third time I’ve received this question. As I’m currently at work and don’t have access to either my e-book or one of my hardback copies, I’m going to give you a list of items and quotes from canon, off the top of my head, that point in this direction:
In the Beginning, Crowley makes a beautifully foreshadowing remark to Aziraphale: Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? Funny if I did the good thing and you did the bad one, eh? Pay attention to that sentiment next time you reread; all following instances of Crowley doing the right thing and Aziraphale doing the wrong thing thereafter will seem starkly obvious.
During the series of conversations that led up to the Arrangement, Crowley is the first one to bring up how unfair humans have it, that you can’t expect Aziraphale’s (read: Heaven’s) idea that humans are only good or bad because they want to be to work unless you start everyone off equal (You can’t start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a war zone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle, he says). He finds Heaven’s lack of mercy deplorable (That’s lunatic, he tells Aziraphale).
Aziraphale is too careless to take a living dove’s welfare into account when he shoves it up his sleeve in the first place. When he finds it dead and squishy in his coat, he’s no more than mildly annoyed; Crowley, on the other hand, gently takes the bird from him and breathes life back into it. Actions speak louder than words.
Crowley’s reaction to the Spanish Inquisition breaks my heart, i.e. once he hears about the atrocities, he goes and gets drunk for a week in order to forget. Compare this reaction to one of the fleeting thoughts he has while he’s on the M25, having just left the scene of Aziraphale’s burning bookshop (and I need not quote you fragments of that scene from memory, although I swear I’d do it if I thought it were necessary to make the point): Aziraphale’s gone, the world’s going to end, so why not find a nice little restaurant somewhere and just get drunk out of his mind? That’s so very, very telling.
Early in the book, the narrative makes light of Crowley’s dislike of the fourteenth century, but we find out later, in a moment of extreme terror and duress, that he hadn’t felt like this since the fourteenth century. I’m a scholar of the Middle Ages, so for those of you not intimately familiar with the fourteenth century, I’ll tell you this much: it was a vibrant, fascinating, brilliant time to be alive. Someone like Crowley would not have found the fourteenth century dull. No: for my money, he spent the latter half of the fourteenth century terrified because that’s when the Black Death ravaged Europe. All of the things you love in the world, humans and all their brightest achievements, snuffed out by the millions. That’s so vast that trying to drink your way through it would’ve been unfeasible even for an ethereal creature like Crowley.
Crowley’s boundless optimism, never mind that he’s completely and utterly terrified of his employers. Think of his reaction every time they contact him over the radio or cutting into what he’s watching on telly. You cannot convince me that someone whose Fall is pointedly described as just sauntering vaguely downwards is actually evil. He sides with an angel and humanity and successfully helps them to win a rebellion using only words and ideas.
Crowley’s core nature is writ large on every page, as far as I’m concerned. If you ever reread the book, I’d be interested to know if you reach a similar conclusion.